


if only you knew

by WhatIsAir



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Some Pre-Canon, Unrequited Love, at least that's what matt thinks, avocados in love, italian tracksuit mobsters, matt murdock needs help with feelings, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Because Matt’s realized that hearing Foggy in flagrante delicto is definitely not conducive to either his libido or his sanity.'</p><p>Or, 5 times Matt was too much of an idiot to act on his feelings, and the 1 time Foggy acted on his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if only you knew

“No, seriously, that – that was amazing!” Foggy says emphatically, shifting closer and placing a hand on Matt’s knee. It burns white-hot against the rest of the flames, a brand.

 

Matt ducks his head and pretends to be fiddling with the pen in his hands, praying that Foggy can’t see the dim flush spreading across his cheeks.

 

“It wasn’t _that_ good,” he mutters. He can feel the heat of Foggy’s palm, searing even through the jeans he’s wearing.

 

“Oh, come on, now you’re just fishing for compliments,” Foggy grins, and Matt can’t help the answering smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Foggy shoulder-bumps him gently. “What do you want me to say, huh? That you wiped the floor with his sorry ass? Because I will say it, if that’s what it takes. I’ll shout it from the rooftops that Matt Murdock is a _terror_ when it comes to debates. Even mock ones.”

 

That startles a laugh out of Matt, which he quickly muffles by burying his head against Foggy’s shoulder.

 

He decides not to tell Foggy he may or may not have overheard the opposing team’s rebuttals when they were discussing it in the library a few days ago. The fact that he was on the other side of the library at the time is a minor detail. Nothing of consequence.

 

-

They’re sitting – slumped, really – on the stone steps leading to the lecture hall, Foggy gesturing wildly with the empty beer bottle in his hand, Matt beaming occasionally as he nods along, too plastered to contribute much more to the decidedly one-sided conversation they’re having.

 

“Just you wait, Matty,” Foggy says, poking a finger at Matt’s chest, “We’ll be the best damn – _hic_ – the best damn _avocados_ the world’s ever seen –”

 

“Abogados,” Matt says, or, well, tries to say. He appears to have lost the ability to enunciate, so he shrugs instead and tips sideways, sprawling onto Foggy. He shifts until his head is pillowed on Foggy’s lap, then sighs contentedly.

 

Foggy blinks down at him, threads a hand through Matt’s hair like it’s the most normal thing to do.

 

Matt twists so his face is mashed against Foggy’s shirtfront. He tries to be subtle about breathing his friend’s scent in – shampoo, mint, the coffee Foggy insists on chugging every morning.

 

“What’re you doing,” Foggy mutters from above, the hand in Matt’s hair stilling. Matt grumbles, reaching up and tapping Foggy’s wrist pointedly.

 

Foggy snorts but the hand resumes its gentle petting and Matt grins, eyes slipping shut to the sound of Foggy’s voice complaining loudly about all the essays he has yet to write and _what a terrible idea getting drunk tonight was, Murdock_.

 

Foggy’s other hand is resting on his thigh and Matt doesn’t even think before he presses his lips to the skin, just shy of the edge of Foggy’s sleeve.

 

Neither of them will remember the next morning, but for now Matt stays where he is, and Foggy stays where he is, and Matt very generously doesn’t say anything about how quickly both of their hearts are beating.

 

-

“Ask _her_ out? Buddy, are you sure?” Foggy twists in his seat, and does his best not to be obvious about checking Marci out.

 

“Yes, her,” Matt says, keeping his back turned to Marci. His hands clench into fists under the table, where Foggy can’t see.

 

“But how – I mean, I don’t think she knows I _exist_ yet. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”

 

“Trust me,” Matt tells him, and thinks of the times he’s heard Marci’s heart pick up whenever she’s around Foggy, of the desire she exudes when they’re close enough to touch. There’s a leaden weight in his stomach that he can’t explain.

 

“Okay,” Foggy says, like Matt’s go-ahead is more important to him than Marci, and gets up to cross the room.

 

Matt tries not to listen in, he _does_. He listens anyway. Foggy asks, and Marci says yes, like Matt knew she would. They leave the bar holding hands, Marci throwing her head back and laughing at a joke Foggy made, when Foggy suddenly turns to her and says, “Wait, gimme a sec, I gotta tell Matt,” and hurries back to where Matt is still sitting.

 

“You alright getting back to the dorm tonight?” he asks, and Matt senses the apology coming from a mile off, “Because I can –”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Matt says quickly, maybe too quickly. He clears his throat, pasting what he hopes is a believable smile on his face. “Go with Marci, I can manage.”

 

“Thanks, Matt,” says Foggy, bright and happy. He claps a hand on Matt’s shoulder and the _swoosh_ of air before it lands feels like a caress on his skin.

 

“Have fun,” Matt grins, the smile coming easier this time as he adds, “And stay safe.”

 

“God, you’re terrible, Murdock,” Foggy tells him, but he’s grinning, and Matt decides that it’s worth it – all of it – if Marci makes Foggy this happy.

 

-

Matt’s on his way to the library when he hears it – a soft, stifled groan coming from down the hallway, and before he knows it he’s turning around and ducking into a nearby alcove, straining to hear into the room because the voice is unmistakably _Foggy_ and it’s in Matt’s best interests to make sure his friend is _safe_ , that’s all.

 

“… _God_ , Marci,” Foggy gasps emphatically, his head falling back with a thunk against the door, and Matt curses his heightened senses because he can hear _everything_ – Marci expertly pulling Foggy’s zipper down with her teeth, the rustle of fabric as she gets his pants out of the way, then the sounds of wet sucking as she takes Foggy in her mouth.

 

Marci hums around Foggy, and from the choked-off moan he lets out, it must have felt good. Matt quashes the irrational surge of jealousy he feels and heads to the nearest bathroom on the campus, where he locks himself in a stall and gets himself off in three harsh strokes.

 

He tries very hard not to think about how it would feel to take Foggy in his mouth, how Foggy’s hands would thread, gentle but firm, through his hair, not pulling hard enough to hurt, but insistent all the same. He comes with his fist in his mouth and he smells shampoo, and mint, with just a hint of the awful black coffee Foggy likes to down in the mornings.

 

-

Marci breaks up with Foggy, and Matt punches the air in silent victory when he hears about it. Or rather, when he overhears it.

 

Since the Incident, as Matt has taken to calling it (instead of The Time He Not-so-accidentally Eavesdropped On His Best Friend Getting Some), Matt has taken to going the opposite direction whenever things between Marci and Foggy get heated. This loosely translates to Matt sprinting across the campus at full speed in his attempts to avoid hearing any more groans, moans or otherwise sex-related sounds Foggy might make.

 

Because Matt’s realized that hearing Foggy in flagrante delicto is definitely not conducive to either his libido or his sanity.

 

But on his way back to the dorm one night, Matt passes a classroom with the door left ajar, and this time he doesn’t need enhanced hearing to pick out the word ‘Murdock’ amidst the heated argument Foggy and Marci are having.

 

So Matt stays and listens.

 

“…trying to tell me, Marci?” Foggy is saying, and he sounds weary, tired. Defeated.

 

“This?” Marci makes what Matt assumes is an all-encompassing gesture of their relationship. “This isn’t going to work.”

 

“Why not?” Foggy asks, after a long stretch of silence that feels painful even to Matt.

 

“You’re not in this relationship, Foggy,” Marci says softly, soft enough that most people would have had to strain to hear. Matt hears it as clearly as if Marci were standing right next to him.

 

“What does that even mean? Course I’m in this relationship –” Foggy protests. He sounds wrecked, and Matt’s heart clenches painfully.

 

“No, Foggy, you’re not,” Marci cuts across him, “We have dinner sometimes and we hook up. That’s not the same as dating.”

 

“Marci, what –”

 

“I’m not the one you go to when you’re angry, or upset, or just need someone to talk to,” Marci continues, and Matt judges from the tone of her voice that she’s probably smiling sadly.

 

Foggy exhales shakily. “What exactly are you trying to say, Marci?”

 

“That you and Murdock are close, is all,” Marci shrugs, the sound of her nails tapping against the tabletop grating to Matt’s ears, “Very close. Whatever it is you two have, I don’t want to end up caught in the middle. I could handle it if you were the most important person in _his_ life, I just can’t handle it if he’s the most important person in yours, too.”

 

Marci leans in and pecks Foggy on the forehead, then there’s the sound of her heels clicking across the linoleum floor, and Matt barely makes it around the corner before she pushes the door open and leaves Foggy standing alone in the room.

 

From down the hall, Foggy lets out what sounds like a strangled sob, and Matt is left feeling like a complete asshole for rejoicing at their break-up.

 

+1

What Matt hadn’t expected when he donned the suit and went out to fight crime tonight is the virtual ambush of Italian mobsters lying in wait for him. It’s a twenty-to-one fight, and as if that isn’t enough, the bastards have managed to inject him with something using a dart, so Matt’s movements are slow, sluggish.

 

It could have been worse, Matt thinks, as he lies on the grimy alley floor, clutching his side and wincing. At least he managed to take down the leader – who’s currently unconscious and cuffed to a drainpipe, practically giftwrapped for the police of Hell’s Kitchen to collect.

 

Matt’s about to call Claire when he remembers that she’s out of town, and had warned him that unless he was in danger of _actually_ dying, that he should under no circumstances call her, because she needed a break from vigilantes doling out their own measures of justice for just _two nights, Matt, please try not to get yourself killed_.

 

So Matt drags himself back to his apartment, collapses onto the couch and hopes the fire in his chest is just broken ribs and not anything worse, because Claire would _kill_ him if he managed to get himself killed.

 

He calls Foggy.

 

“Matt?” Foggy picks up on the second ring, despite it being 3am, sounding incredibly worried.

 

“Can you come?” Matt says, the drugs in his system slurring the words together. “It’s – I can’t –”

 

“I’ll be there in ten,” Foggy says. Matt can hear his keys jangle as he puts them in his pocket. “Stay with me, Matt, come on.”

 

Foggy doesn’t hang up, keeps talking to him even as he shrugs into his jacket and makes his way downstairs. He tells Matt about the newly opened coffee shop just down the block and the amazing brownies they make, about how he’s going to sue Tony Stark’s ass six ways to Sunday for the damage his rogue Iron Man prototypes have inflicted on Hell’s Kitchen, and Matt’s laughing by the time Foggy knocks on his door, feeling worlds better.

 

“Door’s open,” Matt murmurs into the phone, and Foggy steps into the apartment just as Matt hangs up and the line goes dead.

 

“Jesus, Matt, what the hell happened to you?” is the first thing Foggy says, crossing the room and dropping to his knees besides where Matt’s lying on the couch. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know.”

 

“That – bad?” Matt says, starting to sit up, then gasping when the movement jostles something and – yep, definitely some broken ribs.

 

“Whoa, hey, you might wanna slow down.” Foggy’s hands are on his chest, gently pushing until Matt gives in and lies back down.

 

“I’m fine, Foggy,” Matt says, which would probably have been more convincing if his voice didn’t crack on the last word. He licks his lips and tries again. “Just – s’thing in the dart. Drugged me.”

 

“ _Who_ drugged you?” Foggy asks angrily, and he sounds so outraged at the very idea that for a brief moment Matt almost feels sorry for the Italian mafia.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Matt mumbles, reaching out for Foggy’s hand and tugging. Foggy follows, sitting down on the couch cushion by Matt’s hip. “You’re here now.”

 

Foggy is silent for so long Matt worries he’s offended him. That’s when he hears the hitch in Foggy’s breath and places the distinct saltiness in the air and he realizes Foggy’s _crying_.

 

“ _Foggy_ ,” Matt says, pleads, suddenly feeling far too lucid. He places a hand on Foggy’s shoulder. It’s shaking minutely. “Foggy, it’s okay. I’m okay –”

 

“No, you’re not,” Foggy says hollowly, “You – you go out every other night in that damn suit and every time I worry you’re not going to make it back.” His hands are twisting together in his lap, fingers clutched so tight his knuckles burn white, flaring across the sea of red.

 

“But I did,” Matt says softly, his thumb tracing soothing circles against the skin of Foggy’s neck.

 

“Yeah, this time,” Foggy says, sounding wrecked, and _God_ , Matt doesn’t ever remember Foggy sounding this bad since his break-up with Marci in college. “And every night you’re off battling crime, I tell myself that if you make it back, I’ll tell you. Because I couldn’t stand it if you were – if you were kidnapped by the Russian mafia or whatever, and I’d have to live with knowing I never told you.”

 

Matt’s head is spinning, and he’s not entirely sure it’s from the drugs. “Tell me what?”

 

Foggy’s heart is racing, the staccato rhythm of it crescendoing to a deafening roar in Matt’s ears as Foggy sucks in a breath and leans in, close enough that their noses are bumping, the tips of Foggy’s hair ghosting against Matt’s jaw.

 

“That I’m sorry for not doing this sooner,” Foggy breathes against his lips, before crushing their mouths together.

 

Matt winds his other hand around Foggy’s neck, keeping him place, and parts his lips so Foggy can lick his way inside. His ribs are still searing but his chest has never felt so light, and when they finally part for air he’s giggling, laughing so hard he worries he might actually end up breaking another rib, and Foggy’s grinning at him with an air of bemusement.

 

“You,” Matt says, once he’s managed to stop laughing, “are an idiot.” He wraps his hand around Foggy’s. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

 

“Just how long exactly have you been dying to jump my bones?” says Foggy, and Matt senses from the way Foggy’s heartrate picks up, just slightly, that the answer is important to him, belying the humour in his tone.

 

So he turns his head and stares at the twin spots of brightness standing out against the leaping flames. Judging by the way Foggy sucks in a sharp breath, he’s staring straight into Foggy’s eyes. “Since college. Since we first met.”

 

“Murdock, you’re such a hopeless romantic,” Foggy says, and Matt opens his mouth to retort because he’s _not_ , only Foggy chooses that precise moment to lean forward and suck his tongue into his mouth and Matt decides that defending his honour can wait.

 

He’s got more important things to do.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is to me what vigilantism is to matt, so hit me with your best shot
> 
> oh can't you just imagine matt saying that even when he's backed into an alley by a group of thugs, because he has zero self-preservation and he just really needs someone (foggy) to hold him


End file.
